


Two Entirely Different Realms

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mycroft's Meddling, Pre-Slash, Questioning, Sarah and John are bros, Sexual Identity, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft keeps doing John favours. Sherlock is understandably suspicious. John is just confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Entirely Different Realms

‘You can go in,’ the bouncer told Sarah, nodding as he unclipped the velvet rope to let her through.  She was already inside when John stepped forward, but the bouncer held up a hand.  ‘Not you, Jumper Boy.’

 

‘But that’s my girlfriend,’ John said helplessly.

 

‘Yeah, an’ we’ve a quota to fill, laddie,’ said the bouncer, sounding almost regretful.  ‘There’s an algorithm an’ all, fer proper hexecution, posted in the back.  There’s got ter be a 3:1 female-male ratio on Fridays, sorry, mate.’

 

A sleek black car rolled up in the street behind them, and Mycroft got out of the back, his umbrella tapping against the wet pavement as he stepped forward.

 

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ John asked.

 

But Mycroft addressed the bouncer.  ‘Jeffrey!  How are you, my _dear_ boy?’

 

The burly man looked around, as if to check that no one was watching, though of course half the queue was interested.  He seemed to ignore this, turning to Mycroft.  ‘Good, sir.  An’ yerself?’

 

‘Oh, capital, capital,’ Mycroft trilled, glancing up at the foggy, overcast sky.  ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?  This is my friend, John Watson.’

 

Jeffrey-the-bouncer’s eyes grew wide as he looked at John.  ‘You _know_ Mr Holmes?’

 

John was about to answer, but Mycroft cut him off.  ‘We’re practically family, my good man.  Ah!’  He peered past the velvet rope.  ‘I suppose his lady-friend has already gone through, has she?  Pretty girl, isn’t she, Jeffrey?  Sweet, trusting face?’

 

The bouncer nodded politely.  ‘Yes, sir.’

 

Mycroft’s eyes sparkled with what could have been malice in a different light.  ‘We wouldn’t want some unscrupulous character to snatch her away from John’s loving and protective arms, now, would we?’

 

Jeffrey gulped.  ‘N-no, sir.  O’course not, sir.’

 

‘Then I do believe you ought to show this sterling fellow inside,’ Mycroft advised him, ‘and allow him to continue on his chivalrous way.’

 

John stared disbelievingly as the bouncer unclipped the rope and held open the door for him.  ‘Terribly sorry fer the delay, Mr Watson.’

 

‘Er,’ said John, ‘it’s fine, really.  Don’t mention it.’  He looked over his shoulder as he went inside; Mycroft wiggled his fingers at him in farewell, smirk glinting in the neon lights.

 

 

‘Card not authorised,’ said the slightly judgemental recorded voice of the chip-and-PIN machine.  ‘Please use alternative method of payment.’

 

John swiped the card again.

 

‘Card not authorised.  Please use alternative method of payment.’

 

‘Damn you,’ John growled at the machine, and was just about to give up, to slink back to the flat and beg Sherlock’s card off him for the _nth_ time, when a suit-jacketed arm, wrist decorated by a tastefully understated cuff-link, reached across and slid another card for him.

 

‘Your card has been accepted!’ chirruped the machine.  ‘Payment processing.’

 

John looked up, almost annoyed.  ‘Mycroft?’

 

‘Good afternoon, John.  I trust you’re well?’

 

John hesitated, wanting to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, because surely the last place on earth that Mycroft Holmes would ever be was Tesco.  ‘I’m, er, fine.  Thanks for that.’

 

‘Not a problem,’ said Mycroft, strolling away, his umbrella crooked over his arm.

 

 

‘He’s manipulating you,’ Sherlock said tersely, wringing his hands as he thought, ‘for some vile purpose yet unknown to us.’

 

‘Look,’ said John, ‘it’s not as if he’s kidnapped me again or something, he’s just being... well, _helpful_.  He’s showing up and being nice, is all.’

 

‘It’s never that simple with him, John!  You have to see past the surface to the dark motives which sleep beneath.’

 

‘Have you considered,’ John wondered aloud as he put the kettle on, ‘that you’re a melodramatic tosser and he’s capable of being a decent person?’

 

‘Impossible,’ Sherlock said dismissively, shaking his head.  ‘You don’t know him like I do, John, you don’t know the depths of depravity to which he’ll stoop to get his way.’

 

John shrugged.  ‘If you say so.’

 

 

It was raining hard, and John was walking to work; a strong gust of wind had carried his pocket-sized umbrella into the street, where it had been crushed by a lorry.  It looked as if it was going to be a miserable day.

 

He barely noticed when, through the haze of the downpour, a black car rolled up alongside him, but then he heard his name.

 

‘John!’ said Mycroft.  ‘Get in, my boy, you’re positively soaked.’

 

And the next day, just after John had opened a notice that said his bank account was overdrawn:

 

 _The situation has been remedied. –MH_

And the following Wednesday, a card tucked under John’s bedroom door:

 

 _I have taken the liberty of handling your bills, including but not limited to paying off your accounts for the next three years in advance.  I do hope you don’t mind the intrusion. –MH_

‘He’s going to be leaving you flowers, next,’ Sherlock said in a dour way over breakfast.

 

John chewed his over-cooked porridge thoughtfully.  ‘Is he?’

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  ‘Of course not, John, he’s only arranging matters so that you owe him favours.  He’s trying to boost your loyalty to him, so he can use you like a toy and then toss you aside like a soiled glove.’

 

‘You used two similes in one sentence,’ John pointed out.  ‘Bit excessive.’

 

‘Just be careful,’ said Sherlock, sounding truly concerned.  ‘He’s dangerous.’

 

But John _liked_ danger.

 

 

He was walking to the post office for stamps, and Mycroft fell into step with him.

 

‘Good morning, John.’

 

John nodded.  ‘Mycroft.’

 

‘I suppose you must be curious as to why I’m treating you so well,’ Mycroft said casually, flicking a speck of lint from his otherwise immaculate shirt cuff.

 

‘Sherlock thinks you’re manipulating me so I’ll do what you say,’ admitted John.

 

‘Of course he does,’ Mycroft chuckled, ‘but what do _you_ think?’

 

John frowned, putting his hands in his coat pockets.  ‘I don’t know yet.’

 

‘Take your time,’ said Mycroft.  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

 

And John kept walking, not realising Mycroft had stopped until looking up as he, John, turned a corner.  Confused, John looked around, behind him, but Mycroft was gone.

 

 

John opened the front door, glad to be home, and saw, at the top of the stairs, a shiny, tastefully-coloured gift-bag, stuffed with white tissue embellished with gold leaf.

 

He ascended the stairs; once at the top, he looked down at the bag suspiciously.  ‘Sherlock?’ he called.

 

‘What,’ Sherlock shot back from inside the flat.

 

‘There’s a parcel on the stairs.’

 

‘Well, bring it in.’

 

‘I think,’ said John, feeling profoundly silly, ‘it could be a bomb or something.’

 

Sherlock ricocheted out across the landing, dropping to his hands and knees at the top of the stairs, his magnifier already extended in his hand.  ‘It’s a gift-bag, John.’

 

‘Well spotted,’ John said, annoyed, ‘but what’s in it?’

 

Sherlock didn’t touch the bag, but he did everything else he could to it—mostly, he sniffed it.

 

‘Scotch,’ he said at last, and John slumped against the wall, relieved.  ‘1887, I believe, rather smoky and full-bodied.  That’s a rare vintage.’

 

‘Is it safe?’

 

‘It’s from Mycroft’s cellars,’ Sherlock said, getting to his feet, ‘you tell me.’

 

‘He wouldn’t try to poison me,’ John said reasonably, but Sherlock cut him off, sounding hurt:

 

‘He’s _already_ poisoned you.’

 

It took John a long moment to figure out what he meant, and by then Sherlock had gone back in, locking himself in his room.

 

 

 _That’s excellent scotch. –JW_

 _I prefer to speak rather than text.  Call me. –Mycroft_

 _No, I’m happy texting just now.  Why are you giving me presents? –JW_

 _I approve of you, John. – Mycroft_

 _Approval and Victorian scotch are in two entirely different realms. –JW_

 _I’ll explain my motives in detail if you call me. – Mycroft_

 _I’m not going to call you. –JW_

 _I had feared as much.  Alas. – Mycroft_

 _I can’t believe you used ‘alas’ in a text. –JW_

 _Should I have said, instead, ‘My heart is broken’? – Mycroft_

 _(Sarcasm doesn’t get across in text without emoticons, Mycroft.)  Have you got a heart? –JW_

 _I’m hurt, John. – Mycroft_

 _It’s only a question.  I know you’ve literally got one, obviously.  Just curious as to your opinion on the subject. –JW_

 _Should I say that it’s shrivelled and black?  Would that please you? – Mycroft_

 _It would please me if you were honest. –JW_

And John didn’t hear from him again for six hours.  His phone screen flashed on in the dark of his bedroom, and John stabbed at it clumsily, half asleep, opening the new message.

 

 _I would very much like to be honest for you._

John had his keys in the door when he heard Sherlock snap from the room beyond, ‘So stop harassing him, Mycroft!’

 

John froze, listening hard.

 

‘I am doing nothing of the kind,’ Mycroft said hotly, sounding angrier than John had ever heard him, his unflappable calm shaken, for once.  ‘All I’ve done is show a vested interest—’

 

‘Ha!  Interest!’  Sherlock made a disgusted noise.  ‘You’re interested in what he can do for you.’

 

‘You’re wrong,’ Mycroft said warningly, and John heard someone’s footsteps, pacing.

 

Sherlock scoffed.  ‘Surely you can’t mean that you’re _genuinely_ interested in pursuing him?’

 

‘I mean precisely that.’

 

John heard the twang of violin strings.  ‘My most heartfelt apologies if I don’t believe you.’

 

‘I knew you’d take it this way,’ Mycroft said, sounding farther away than before, perhaps standing by the window.  ‘I knew you’d be as childish as possible.’

 

‘I’m not being childish!  I simply can’t fathom why John would interest you—just _look_ at him, Mycroft!  Honest.  Brave.  Pleasant.  Everything you despise in a person.’

 

John didn’t know whether to feel flattered or stung, and his fists curled at his sides as he listened on.

 

‘Only when those qualities are a person’s only substance!’

 

Sherlock twanged the violin again.  ‘You actually think there’s more to him than that, do you?’  Sherlock’s voice took on a tone of mocking lechery.  ‘Itching to plumb those hidden depths?’

 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft snarled, ‘ _actually._ If you must know.’

 

‘Mycroft, I live with the man,’ said Sherlock impatiently.  ‘I assure you, there are no hidden depths.’

 

John had had enough; he opened the door, forcing a smile as he greeted them.  ‘Oh, hi, I didn’t know you were home, Sherlock.  Hello, Mycroft.’

 

Sherlock sighed, applying rosin to his violin bow.  ‘Don’t lie, John; you’ve been standing outside the door for the past three and a quarter minutes.  Mycroft only continued the conversation because he desired you to hear it.’

 

John stiffened where he stood, his jaw clenched.  ‘All right.’

 

‘He’s merely trying to deter me,’ Mycroft told John apologetically.  ‘Don’t put any stock in what he said; he didn’t mean it.’

 

Sherlock glared at his brother.  ‘Go home, Mycroft.  Go harangue someone who doesn’t live here, for a change.’

 

Surprisingly, Mycroft listened to him, turning to go.

 

John couldn’t help himself.  ‘Deter you from what?’

 

Mycroft paused, his hand on the door.  ‘Courting you.’

 

And he was gone.

 

John collapsed onto the sofa—the seat that put the most distance between him and Sherlock—and clutched his forehead, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.  ‘ _God_ , you two.’

 

‘We two, what?’ Sherlock asked casually, as if nothing had happened, polishing his violin bow.  ‘Is something the matter?’

 

John sighed explosively.  ‘You know what, Sherlock?  Fuck you.’  But he was conflicted, confused, and his words lacked the vehemence which such a statement typically required to have any sort of impact.  ‘Was he serious?’

 

‘About what?’

 

John felt ridiculous even saying it.  ‘Courting me.’

 

‘Oh, yes.’  Sherlock shook his head.  ‘In his way, yes.’

 

John felt himself fighting back a smile, which only confused him further.  ‘Do you really think I’m shallow?’

 

Sherlock frowned, at a loss, almost offended.  ‘What?  No, of course not.  If you were, I’d be bored with you by now.’

 

John slumped back against the cushions.  ‘Oh, good, because you saying those things is completely not hurtful, so long as you didn’t mean them.’

 

‘I knew you’d see my reasons,’ said Sherlock brightly.  ‘Glad we’re on the same page.’

 

 

‘There’s a man,’ John told Sarah as they stood on her balcony, looking at the stars, ‘who wants to court me.’

 

Sarah laughed—not unkindly, simply out of surprise.  ‘ _Court_ you?  Who is this guy, Mr Darcy?’

 

John huffed, amused.  ‘Hardly.  Although,’ he added, reconsidering, ‘he was cold and distant, and now—’ he made a _viola!_ gesture with his hands, ‘—he’s all interested.’

 

Sarah picked up her glass of wine, stared into it as if it had something to tell her, then set it back down.  ‘How do you feel about that?’

 

‘I don’t really know.’  John slumped against the rail, looking down into the street.  ‘He’s a bit frightening, to be honest.’

 

Sarah elbowed him gently.  ‘In a sexy way?’

 

John looked up, affronted.  ‘What?  No!  Not in a—what are you even saying?  I’m straight.’

 

‘Nobody’s one hundred percent straight, John,’ Sarah said logically, sounding for a moment just a little like Sherlock.  ‘Mammals are inherently bisexual, at the very least.  Straight isn’t the default station on the dial, no matter what people say.’

 

‘Wish I knew what my default _was_ ,’ said John miserably, taking a drink from Sarah’s wineglass, as his was empty.  ‘I could stick a pin in my side and restore the factory settings, or something.’

 

‘You’re not an iPod, John,’ Sarah laughed, shaking her head.  ‘People don’t work that way.  Not even Sherlock’s an iPod.’

 

‘No, see, the sad thing is he’s a supercomputer that’s acquired sentience.’  John sighed.  ‘So’s Mycroft, and I think I’m... God, I’m a sock or something, by comparison.’

 

Sarah rubbed his shoulders.  ‘You need to stop worrying about this, love.’

 

John shook his head, smiling.  ‘If I could do that, we wouldn’t even be talking about it.’

 

‘So who’s this rakish suitor who wants to sweep you off your feet and hog your dance card?’ Sarah asked, waggling her eyebrows.  ‘Is he handsome?  Because I don’t think I’d say no to a threesome.’

 

John looked scandalised for a moment, then laughed.  ‘I don’t think he goes in for that sort of thing.’

 

‘Who is it, then?’  Sarah prodded him in the arm.  ‘Come on, darling, I’m your girlfriend.  I have a right to know all about the gorgy men in your life and how much they want to get into your pants.’

 

John looked away, back up to the stars, swallowing hard.  ‘Sherlock’s brother.’

 

‘Ahh,’ Sarah said, as if he had just given a descriptive ten-minute lecture rather than a two-word reply.  ‘The government’s most powerful supercomputer’s lusting after you, then?  Ooh, poor baby, you have such a difficult life.’

 

John rolled his eyes at her.  ‘I don’t think he’s _lusting_ after me.  I’d be surprised if he were even capable of such a normal, biological thing.’

 

‘You know what?’ said Sarah, her mouth wobbling with a suppressed grin.

 

‘What?’

 

Her eyes sparkled with mirth.  ‘He wants to download the contents of your hard drive.’

 

John groaned, theatrically clutching his sides as if wounded by her ghastly pun.  ‘You’re horrible!’

 

When they had stopped laughing, Sarah asked very seriously, ‘So how about it?’

 

John had lost track of things.  ‘How about what?’

 

‘Why don’t you give him a go and see?’

 

John made a helpless gesture between them.  ‘But—what about—?’

 

‘John, I honestly don’t mind.’

 

He eyed her warily.  ‘Is this a fidelity test?’

 

She snorted.  ‘No, you git!  This is being an accepting person.’

 

‘Oh,’ said John, completely gobsmacked.  ‘Right.’

 

 

The next morning John walked to his favourite espresso bar, only to find Mycroft waiting at one of the little wrought-iron tables outside, already having ordered John’s usual latte.

 

‘You know,’ John told him, smiling guardedly, ‘this sort of thing is considered terrifically creepy by normal people.’

 

‘I’d like to apologise for my behaviour,’ said Mycroft as John sat down across from him.  ‘I ought to have tested the waters more thoroughly before...’ he cleared his throat, looking a little strained, ‘plunging in, as it were.’

 

John shrugged.  ‘You’re a genius.  To be honest I don’t expect typical social behaviour out of you any more than I expect it of Sherlock.’

 

‘I see.’

 

John looked down at his cup; Mycroft had had the barista write his, John’s, name on the side, and beside it was a little heart.

 

‘Why do you like me?’ he asked, for it was weighing on him.

 

‘If I revealed everything now,’ Mycroft told him, ‘you would be bored, later.’  He hesitated, fiddling with the strap that held his umbrella in its neat, tight furl.  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

 

John shook his head.  ‘I’m not you, Mycroft.  I’m not Sherlock, either, I’m just me.  I get bored by different things.’

 

‘Ah.’  Mycroft swirled a spoon in his cup, which was ceramic and sat atop a matching saucer.  It was one of those symbols Mycroft sneaked into their in-person interactions, John realised: John, with his sleeved paper cup, might leave, might throw it away; Mycroft would remain until he finished what he started.

 

‘You could tell me at least _one_ thing on the, er, on the list,’ John suggested hopefully.  ‘I mean, maybe I’m assuming there’s a list—’

 

‘There is.’

 

‘Then you could tell me something from it—you know,’ he looked down at his hands, back up at Mycroft, ‘to give me a glimpse, so I have some idea why you’re so interested in me.’

 

‘Do you know why Sherlock said you’re everything I despise in a person?’

 

‘What, because I’m brave and honest and...’ John frowned, ‘what was it, pleasant?  Was that all of them?’

 

‘Yes, you’ve got the lot.’

 

‘All right.  What about it?’

 

‘Because,’ said Mycroft, sipping his coffee, ‘I don’t understand how people can be those things.’

 

John gave him a deadpan look.  ‘Oh, wonderful.  Don’t tell me you’re a sociopath, as well?’

 

Mycroft laughed, and it was different from the laugh John had heard before; it was transparently gentle and light, like a sheet of tracing paper drifting down into silence.  ‘Far from it.  I am simply far too aware of my own shortcomings.’

 

John gazed at him for a long moment.  Surely someone as haughty and powerful as Mycroft didn’t have self-esteem issues?  The very concept seemed ridiculous.  ‘So, is this a you-want-to-be-me situation?’  He remembered, suddenly, a discussion he’d had with Sherlock about historical serial killers and their rituals.  ‘Do you think bathing in my blood will give you my powers, or something?’

 

Mycroft shook his head, smiling.  ‘It’s more that you begin where I end, John.’

 

John, despite his occasional obliviousness, despite his penchant for _er_ and _oh, sorry, I didn’t know_ , knew when something was romantic when someone said it to him.  ‘Oh.’

 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, lowering his eyes with a secretive little smile.  ‘ _Oh._ ’

 

John steeled himself for the absurdity of what he was about to say.  ‘In that case, I cordially accept your offer of courtship.’

 

Mycroft looked up in a flash.  ‘Do you really mean that?’

 

‘Well,’ John said, smiling, ‘it certainly won’t be boring.’


End file.
